


Long Way Home

by Draycevixen



Series: POI fic by Draycevixen [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, Competency, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:18:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch saves Reese's life. </p><p>Written for Smallfandomfest, a livejournal community. </p><p>Fest 11 prompt: Reese/Finch, hurt/comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Way Home

Amateurs, damn amateurs. He’d let his guard down, overly confident in his ability to control the situation, and been taken out by a sixteen year old girl wielding a blackjack. Finch was never going to let him hear the end of this. 

Reese pulled against the restraints again only managing to sink the plastic zip ties further in to his wrists. 

Not that Finch was going to get the chance to lecture him about anything. Knowing Finch wouldn’t approve of his plans for Lydecker, he’d left his phone behind at his apartment. 

If they’d used ropes to tie him up the blood that had dripped down his arm might have helped loosen them. As it was, the Rorschach pattern it formed on the concrete floor was at least mildly distracting as he waited for the kid with the knife to return. It looked sort of like a bird with its wings spread wide in flight. 

He’d have liked a chance to tell Finch… probably better this way. After their earlier disagreement over Lydecker Finch would probably assume he’d just left, fading back in to the gutter and at least he wouldn’t have to live with the guilt of believing himself responsible for Reese’s death. He wouldn’t be but Reese knew Finch, knew that wouldn’t stop him believing it. 

He heard footsteps in the hallway, the steps quick and light, and straightened up as much as he could on the bench forcing a smirk on to his face. It was Susie, the girl he’d made the mistake of turning his back on. This time she was carrying a hunting knife. 

“You really don’t want to—”

“Shut up.” She waved the knife a little too close to Reese’s face for comfort.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Fuck, you’re bleeding like a stuck pig.” She stared at the blood puddle under the bench. “If I cut you loose will you leave, just leave, and never come back?”

“I can’t do that, Susie.” 

“You couldn’t just fucking lie to me?” She paced backwards and forwards in front of him. “Look, all I care about is Ben.”

“Ben?”

“The man with the knife. You promise to leave him alone and I’ll free you.” 

He thought about it. Ben didn’t matter only Lydecker did. “Alright, you’ve got a deal.”

Susie stopped and stared at him for a moment before nodding and going to her knees to saw through the plastic zip ties holding his ankles to the bench. Freed, he immediately stood up, swaying and stamping his feet, grateful that the blood flow to his feet hadn’t been entirely cut off. He was starting to turn his back to her when she stopped him with a hand to his elbow. 

“I’m not going to cut your hands loose. I don’t trust you that much.” She opened a door set in the back wall. “These stairs will take you up to the alley. You’ve got about five minutes before they’re going to come back so you better make the most of it.” 

He didn’t need to be told twice, going up the stairs as fast as he could gritting his teeth as his arms smacked in to the walls of the narrow space. The bar on the exit door at the top proved an obstacle and he lost precious seconds working out how to strike it without potentially blacking out from the pain. 

Out in the alley he stumbled over some empty crates and without his hands free to brace himself he fell heavily to the ground. He was rolling over and up on to his knees when he heard the door crash open. 

Ben had swapped his knife for a gun and was leveling it at his head. He’d always suspected he’d die in an alley, he just hadn’t known in would be behind Madame Charmaine’s Exotic Erotica store and at the hands of an amateur. 

The shot in the alley was deafening, louder than it should have been for the Saturday Night Special the kid was holding. Ben crumpled backwards, a hole in his chest. Reese instinctively threw himself to the ground, there was no guarantee that Ben’s enemy would be his friend, and rolled to face the new threat. 

Finch was moving as fast as he could towards him, a .45 dangling from one unsteady hand. 

“Are you all right, Mr. Reese?” 

Reese rolled up on to his knees again, already scanning the street end of the alley for a response to the sound of the gunshot. He looked back at Finch in time to see Finch carefully not looking at Ben’s body before stuffing the gun into his overcoat pocket and reaching in to his jacket pocket to pull out a Swiss army knife. 

“Ex-boy scout?”

“No, restraint prone associate. One might start to think it’s a fetish.” The knife made short work of the ties. “John, your wrists…” Finch pulled the handkerchief from his breast pocket. “Here, we can wrap this—” 

“No time, you’ll have to drive.” Reese started flexing and shaking his hands as he headed towards the mouth of the alley, catching his breath against an excruciating case of pins and needles as feeling started to return to them. 

“You’re bleeding, Mr. Reese.”

Reese gently moved Finch’s hand off his arm. “It’s worse than it looks. It’s pretty much stopped bleeding.” He kept walking, fighting the instinct to run, keeping pace with Finch. 

“Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m not going to a hospital, Finch.”

“Who said anything about a hospital? Dr. Madan isn’t my only resource, I have—”

“I can take care of it.” Reese suspected he needed stitches but he could do them himself, had done it before. “Give me the gun.” His wrists felt like they were on fire but his fingers to his immense relief were working, pointing to no tendon damage at least. 

Finch pulled the gun back out of his coat and handed it over, rolling his eyes as Reese checked that the safety was on. Reese was impressed that Finch had held it together enough to remember to do it.

Finch opened the trunk and silently handed Reese his army coat. He gratefully tugged it on, knowing a man in a blood soaked shirt was too conspicuous, even in New York. As Finch slid behind the driving wheel and started the car, Reese slumped down in to the passenger seat nursing his wrists in his lap. They were clear of the street Finch had parked on and were stopped at a red light a block over before Reese spoke again. 

“Take me to my apartment. I’ve got a few medical supplies and—”

“No.”

“I told you, I’m not going—”

“I’ve got a place a lot nearer than your apartment that’s secure and well supplied. We can be off the street in fifteen minutes, less if the traffic’s good.”

A safe house would work just as well. The important thing was that they stick together. Finch shouldn’t be alone, not after his first, and hopefully last, kill. “Fine, but you’ll need to keep an eye on me.”

“Try to get rid of me, Mr. Reese.”

 

Reese was surprised when Finch pulled off the street into a security gated underground parking lot in the garment district. Finch drove all the way to the back and parked near the elevators before walking around to try to help Reese out of the car. 

Reese waved him off. “I can walk.” 

He followed Finch over to the bank of elevators waiting as Finch punched a long string of numbers in to a keypad by the last one. Reese noted that all the elevators had keypads next to them. Finch stepped back to let Reese go in first before following him in. Reese noted that inside the elevator car there were only up and down buttons.

“I would never have thought of the garment district, Finch.” 

“It’s a good location. Haute couture is a cut-throat business so no one gets suspicious about tight security in buildings like this. In fact, they expect to find it.” 

“Hiding in plain sight?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” 

They stepped out of the elevator in to a short dusty corridor that appeared to offer nothing but roof access via a ladder. He eyed the ladder, wishing they’d just gone to his apartment instead. Finch walked past it to the end of the corridor, pulled a credit card from his wallet and pressed it against the wall which opened silently.

“What next Finch, a coin from my ear?”

Finch quirked an eyebrow and waved him on through. The door closed behind them and Finch turned on the lights. Inside, the space opened out in to a large living room-kitchen combination with floor to ceiling windows. It looked lived-in, in the best sort of way. 

“I have medical supplies back here in one of the bedrooms.” Finch slipped off his overcoat, hanging it up. He looked at Reese who shook his head.

“I’ll have to burn the lot of it, no point in hanging my coat up.” 

Finch led the way across the living room. 

“What I want first, is a shower.”

“But your wounds—”

“Need to be cleaned as does the rest of me.” He knew it was going to hurt like hell but it had to be done. He was filthy from the alley and from being dragged around the backroom of the store. 

Finch led him in to a bedroom painted in a soothing muted green decorated with clean lined modern furniture. 

“The bathroom’s through that door there. Do you need help getting undressed?”

“No, I’ll manage.”

“I have painkillers, John, if you’d like to take something before getting in the shower.”

Reese was sorely tempted but he couldn’t afford to pass out. “No, I’ll be fine.”

The narrowing of Finch’s lips made it clear just how much he believed him. “You’ll find clean clothes in the chest of drawers and closet. Call me if you need anything.”

As soon as Finch left, Reese pulled open the drawers finding underwear, socks, sleep pants, t-shirts and jeans, all in his sizes. The closet yielded a clone of his army jacket, a long wool overcoat, two suits, dress shirts, dress shoes, boots and running shoes, again all in his sizes and in the colors, or rather lack of color, he favored. Finch had definitely been a boy scout in a prior life. In the bathroom, he emptied his pockets and then carefully peeled off his ruined clothes, dropping them in to a heap on the tiled floor. He inspected himself in the large mirror over the vanity noting with a certain professional detachment the large blooming bruise across his ribcage, the cuts across his upper arms and chest and the damaged tissue at his wrists. He used the toilet and then stepped around the corner in the L-shaped room to find both a soaking tub and a large shower cubicle with multiple heads. He turned on the water in the shower, adjusted the temperature and then stepped inside. He reached for the soap, gritting his teeth, knowing just how badly it was going to hurt. Some things never got better with experience. 

 

When he got out of the shower fifteen minutes later he found his clothes gone from the floor and a stack of towels on the vanity along with a bottle of water and pills in a blister pack. He checked the packaging, antibiotics, and then swallowed them down, drinking the rest of the water. Dried off and clothed only in a pair of sleep pants, a t-shirt clutched in one hand and with a towel pressed against the large cut on his arm that was bleeding again, he went in search of Finch. Once he opened the bedroom door and stepped out he saw an open door further down, light spilling out into the hallway. 

“In here, Mr. Reese.”

The room had probably been a bedroom at one point but now it resembled a small doctor’s surgery with an examination table against one wall, a supply cabinet, a work table with a high powered lamp and two chairs on wheels. Finch had removed his jacket, waistcoat and tie, undone his top two shirt buttons revealing a sliver of his undershirt and had his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Reese hesitated in the doorway, admiring the view; on the Finch scale of clothing it was practically a striptease.

Finch had laid out all the supplies necessary to dress his wounds and was reaching for a pair of latex gloves. 

“My wrists and the rest of the cuts can wait. I’m going to have to stitch up my arm first.”

Finch continued to put on the gloves. “I’m surprised you’re not planning on running a hunting knife through the flame on the gas stove and just cauterizing the wound.”

“Been there, done that.” Reese pulled down on one side of his sleep pants, exposing a patch of darkened raised skin where his right leg joined his hip. “Though it was a camp fire.”

“Do I want to know?”

“No, you probably don’t.” Reese sat down, gingerly pulling the towel away from his arm. Thankfully, the pressure had slowed the blood flow again. 

“I have painkiller.”

“No painkillers.” He’d stitched himself up before but at least then he’d been full of whisky which was why the scar on his thigh looked like train tracks drawn by an untalented four year old. Painkillers or whisky, preferably both, sounded great but he couldn’t risk being incapacitated. Once the adrenaline wore off Finch was going to have to deal with having killed a man barely old enough to be called one and Finch’s needs came first. That thought made Reese face again the sure and certain knowledge that he was screwed and not in the good way. 

Finch reached in to a box on the table and pulled out a preloaded syringe. “Lidocaine, quick acting and localized. Don’t worry. You’ll still be wide awake enough to kill someone with your thumbs if it should prove necessary.”

Who wouldn’t love a man with his own stash of Lidocaine? Reese went to take the syringe but Finch stared him down before rolling his chair forward, swabbing Reese’s arm next to the knife wound and injecting him. Reese watched as Finch rolled back to retrieve another small box full of surgical needles and thread which he readied with precision. 

“Hidden talents?” Reese didn’t think, no matter how deeply he dug, that he’d ever get to the bottom of the mystery of Harold Finch. 

“Youtube. I watched a couple of videos and it looked straightforward enough so I practiced on a piece of pork belly.”

“Really?”

Finch smirked. “No, of course not, I took a class. I thought, given our work, it might be prudent.”

Finch tore open a sterile wipe and rolled closer again, reaching out to tap lightly on the knife wound. 

“Numb, Mr. Reese?”

“Yes, Mr. Finch.”

Finch carefully cleaned the wound with the wipe. “Would you please turn on the lamp and angle it more over this way?” Finch waggled his latex coated fingers. “I’d like not to have to put on a fresh pair of gloves.”

Reese took care of it, breathing slowly and deeply, ready to take over from Finch if suturing real flesh turned out to be too much for him. It wasn’t. Finch focused completely on his arm and Reese focused completely on the little frown line formed between Finch’s eyes by his level of concentration. Thanks to the Lidocaine, all he felt was a pulling sensation.

“That should take care of it.” 

Finch turned to get the antibiotic salve and Reese inspected the perfect row of tiny sutures. 

“You do good work, Finch, perhaps you missed your calling as a bespoke tailor.”

Finch’s lips quirked, before he covered Reese’s wound with a dressing and taped it. Finch sat back in his chair, running his eyes over Reese’s naked torso. Reese worked hard at not squirming. 

Finch leaned forward to look more closely at the bruise on Reese’s ribcage. “How did this happen?”

“Henchman number two. I never did get his name.”

Finch ran a gentle hand down it, causing him to jump. Finch quickly pulled his hand back. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be… I’m ticklish.” It was the quickest excuse he could come up with and judging by Finch’s face he bought it.

“Are you sure nothing’s broken?”

“I think one of my ribs might be cracked, but nothing’s broken.”

Finch had that look on his face that meant someone was about to lose all their assets. “Wrists next, I think. More Lidocaine?”

“No, I’ll manage.” Reese gritted his teeth as Finch swabbed his wrist with another antiseptic wipe before applying butterfly strips to close some of the larger lacerations.

“I know they had you tied up but were you in a knife fight as well?” 

“Ben thought he could impress Lydecker by getting me to talk.”

“Ben?”

“The kid—man in the alley.”

Finch’s fingers stilled. “So he cut you with a knife while you were tied to a chair?”

“Most of the cuts were shallow. As I remained uncooperative he tried a deeper one. Amateur mistake.”

“Why amateur?”

“You never want the person you’re interrogating to bleed out too fast.”

Reese saw Finch flinch before he started moving again, reaching for Reese’s other wrist. “I’ll bear that in mind for future reference.”

 

Wrists bandaged, the rest of Reese’s cuts cleaned and dressed, Finch stood up from his chair, his hands rubbing at his lower back. Reese was careful not to be seen to be watching him. It wasn’t until Reese reached for his t-shirt that he realized how sore he really was, not able to choke off a small groan. 

“John?” Finch immediately came to stand beside him. 

He would never get tired of hearing Finch say his name. “I’m fine, I’ve just stiffened up from sitting. Could you help me with this t-shirt?” 

Finch took it out of his hand and scrunched it up, pulling the neck hole down over Reese’s head. As Finch did so, his fingers came in to contact with the knot on the back of Reese's head from where Susie had used the blackjack. Finch stepped behind him, angling the light up so he could examine it. 

“Another gift from… Ben?”

“No, that one’s from his girlfriend, Susie.”

“Ben, henchman number two and Susie? Is the whole of New York lining up to get a piece of you?” Finch ran tentative fingers over the bump.

No, not all of New York, unfortunately. He didn’t turn and reach for Finch despite the overwhelming urge to do so. “Sometimes it feels that way.”

Finch’s fingers ran over the bump again. “It doesn’t look like the skin is broken.”

He liked the sensation of Finch’s hands on him too much. “It’s nothing Finch, just sore.”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t have a concussion…”

“I’m sure. I’ve had enough of them to know.”

“All right.” Finch walked back around in front of him and finished helping Reese to get the t-shirt on.

He followed Finch back out in to the main room. Harold walked over to the fridge and opened it.

“May I make you something to eat? I have steaks and the salad still looks good.” 

“Just some more water, thanks.” 

Finch turned and looked for a moment like he was going to throw the bottle but then he changed his mind, closed the fridge, and walked it over to him. Reese appreciated the consideration for his wrists. 

“Well, if I can’t do anything else for you?” 

Reese had more than a few suggestions but none he was willing to share. “Nothing, thanks.”

“Then I believe I’m going to bed. Please help yourself to anything you want. Goodnight, Mr. Reese.” 

Reese watched Finch walk slowly away down a second hallway on the other side of the living room. He should have said something, should have said yes to dinner, anything to keep Finch with him longer. Finch had been focused on the task at hand but it was only a matter of time before that mind of his started processing shooting Ben and Finch already carried too much guilt around for the numbers he hadn’t been able to save. The one thing Reese had sworn to himself to do was keep Finch’s hands clean and he hadn’t even managed that. Ben’s death was on him, not Finch. Ben would barely make a ripple in the nightmares he often had, a sea of hands and barely remembered faces pulling him ever downwards. 

What could he do? He quickly clamped down on the part of his brain that whispered Finch’s bed was probably big enough for two and why shouldn’t he be comfortable if he had to keep an eye on him? Reese often went where he wasn’t welcome but only to visit his enemies.

He finished the water and threw the empty bottle in the recycling bin under the sink before pulling a couple of more bottles of water out of the fridge and heading back to the bedroom Finch appeared to have designated as Reese’s. 

He tried to watch TV for a while. He’d found a remote on his bedside table and when he’d clicked the ‘on’ button the TV had risen up from the bed’s footboard. Another button had raised the head of the bed in to a comfortable sitting position. Reese had suspicions that it had been arranged this way so it would work, if necessary, as a long term recovery bed for him. He turned the volume down low and tried to stay awake, one ear cocked for any sound from Finch. 

 

He woke up gone two in the morning, the TV playing an episode of Mister Ed. There it was again, a sound from the living room. He sat bolt upright cursing under his breath as his body reminded him why moving fast wasn’t currently a great idea. He reached for the bedside table drawer only remembering once he had it halfway open that his gun wouldn’t be there as he wasn’t in his own apartment. Only Finch really did think of everything. In the drawer was a Glock 17. Nice choice. Reese checked it was loaded and, gun in hand, moved as quickly and quietly as possible out in to the living room.

“You can put the gun down, Mr. Reese.” Finch was sat at the kitchen counter, a plate in front of him. “I am completely unarmed unless you count my sandwich.”

“It depends on what’s in it.” Reese put the gun down on the edge of the counter and moved over to stand near Finch. Dressed only in a dark blue v-necked t-shirt and sleep pants, his feet bare, Finch’s hair was sleep ruffled. Reese’s fingers itched to reach out and stroke it back in to place. 

“Peanut butter and raisins on wheat.” Finch extended his plate in the universal food gesture of _have the other half._

“You’re armed.” Reese shied away from the plate.

“My mother used to make it for me when I…” Finch’s voice petered out as he reached for his glass of milk. 

Reese tried to judge whether he should push or not. “I think I’ll have a sandwich too.” He surveyed the fixings out on the counter. “Plate and glass?” 

Finch pointed to cabinets over the back counter and Reese easily found what he needed. He poured himself a glass of milk and came back to sit next to Finch. He reached for the bread bag taking out a couple of slices and spreading them thickly with peanut butter, before getting a banana out of the fruit bowl, peeling it and cutting it up in to slices to complete his sandwich. He noticed Finch was staring at him in a bemused fashion. 

“What? You’re not the only one whose mother was a bad influence.” 

They ate together in companionable silence. One of the things he’d always liked best about being in Finch’s company was never feeling like he had to talk. He’d spent too much of his life keeping his own counsel to be very comfortable otherwise yet here he was struggling to think of a topic, anything to get Finch talking. He didn’t think “so how do you feel about killing a kid?” was quite the way to go.

“You’ve got a nice place here, Finch.” He’d never been known for his small talk. 

“It’s convenient and very secure.” Finch swung his chair around from the counter to look out across the living room. Reese followed suit. “The large windows are due to the way the building’s designed, the entire front of it is mirrored glass. The ceilings are low because we’re actually in a space above the offices on the next floor down and it appears on schematics as the physical plant for the building. I own that business. One eight digit code gets the elevator to the fifth floor and another longer one brings it up here to the sixth.”

“…And if anyone should happen to make it to this floor they’ll just find the roof access. Clever.” Reese wouldn’t have expected anything less. “What sort of business?”

“Bespoke tailoring.” 

They both grinned, recalling Reese’s earlier joking compliment. 

“I even put in an occasional appearance there, just in case anyone gets too curious about how I get in the elevator but never get out on that floor.”

“Do you do any of the tailoring?” Reese shifted, remembering Finch on his knees before him checking his pants hems, one of his favorite memories. 

“No, just the occasional sketch.” Finch turned to face him. “I fear I am keeping you awake, Mr. Reese. Just because I’m… an insomniac there’s no need for you to keep vigil with me.”

And it could just be this easy. He could say goodnight and return to his room. Finch would pass a sleepless night and with no one to talk to the guilt would slowly eat away at him. Not like they both didn’t already carry enough of it around, what difference could one more thing make? 

“I’m sorry, Finch. I’m sorry I went after Lydecker even after you told me you’d find another way to handle it—”

“Reese, I—”

“Let me finish, please. I’m sorry that you have that kid’s blood on your hands because of me.”

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“ _What?_ ” Was this going to be the end of them? 

“I don’t care if my subconscious has problems with this for a while. I don’t care if he was eighteen or eighty.” Finch stretched out his hand to rest it on Reese’s arm. “It was him or you, John, and that’s no choice at all.”

Reese had had four hours sleep in the last forty-eight hours. He had to be reading things in to this, he had to be. Better not to say anything. He stared down at Finch’s hand. “You need my help, with the numbers.” 

“…How very astute of you, Mr. Reese.” He watched as Finch slowly withdrew his hand. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’d like to try to sleep again.”

Reese might not be good with emotions but he did have really good instincts and they were screaming at him that a door was closing and he better shove his foot in the jam if he wanted it to stay open. He reached out and gripped Finch’s right knee, keeping him in the chair. 

“I can help you sleep, too.” 

Reese started to slowly slide his hand up Finch’s thigh until Finch’s hand on his arm, carefully placed above his bandaged wrist, stopped him. 

“You’re very _kind_ , Mr. Reese, but I think a sleeping pill will get the job done.” Finch’s tone could have stripped wallpaper from a hundred yards away. 

“I’m not _that_ kind, Finch.” He leaned in closer, his hot breath washing over Finch’s ear. “I just know what I want...” Reese sat back, hovering inches in front of Finch’s face. “...Do you?”

Finch’s hands rising to grab and pull him forward were all the answer he needed. Unfortunately, Finch’s hands found the edge of the knife wound and Reese was unable to choke back a gasp of pain. 

Finch released him instantly, again starting to rise from his chair. “Sorry, perhaps we should—”

“Slow and steady wins the race, Harold.” He started to inch his hand back up Finch’s thigh again.

Finch stared at him momentarily before taking his glasses off, folding them up and placing them on the counter. His hands slid slowly around to the nape of Reese’s neck carefully avoiding the bump on the back of his head, before coaxing him forward. Their first kiss was sweet, lips barely pressed together, before Finch pulled back to look at him. 

“More.” John held his breath.

Finch leaned in to press their lips together again, softening his mouth this time and sucking lightly at Reese’s lower lip, his fingers caressing the tender skin behind Reese’s ears. He’d never have thought he could get hard just from that but he was happy to be proved wrong. Finch pulled back from the kiss again but his fingers kept moving, extending those same tantalizing patterns down across the top of Reese’s spine. 

“If you’re trying to kill me, I approve of your method.”

Finch looked down at Reese’s lap then smirked at him. “Faster, John?”

“Just go easy on my shock absorbers.”

There wasn’t anything sweet about the next kiss or the one after that, Reese’s hair practically standing on end as Finch’s hand moved up to draw the same faintly scratching patterns across his scalp, his other hand slipping easily past the waistband of Reese’s sleep pants to echo it low across his stomach. 

Reese moaned as Finch broke the kiss again, slipping from his chair to stand in front of Reese. Finch tugged on Reese’s sleep pants and he obligingly raised his hips so Finch could strip them off him. 

Finch let his eyes roam, licking his lips, causing Reese’s cock to twitch. “Nothing wrong with your shock absorbers at this end.” 

Reese liked to think he’d have come up with a witty retort if Finch hadn’t lowered his head and proceeded to try to suck Reese’s brains out through his cock. 

Hot wet suction alternated with teasing barely there attention and all the time the caresses to his stomach continued, Finch's other hand dropping to tease his balls and the sensitive skin behind them. It was enough to string him out, to keep him panting on the brink, but not enough to push him over. 

Reese sank his fingers in to Finch’s hair, trying to mimic Finch’s earlier caresses, careful to resist the urge to control the movement of Finch’s head, trusting Finch to know what his neck could and couldn’t handle.

Reese was at his limits by the time Finch settled in to a steady rhythm, hollowing his cheeks and taking Reese’s cock all the way in as he slipped one finger inside Reese, pressing upward. Reese came hard, Finch swallowing everything and licking him clean as Reese softened. 

Finch swiped at the corner of his mouth with his thumb, wiping up the last traces of come before sucking it slowly off his thumb with great relish. Harold was definitely trying to kill him. 

Finch picked up his glasses and put them back on. “Goodnight, John.” He’d already started to turn away when Reese managed to shake off his stupor and make it up out of the chair, turning Finch back around to face him, kissing him gently and tasting traces of himself, before running his hand down to caress Finch’s hard cock. 

“Your place or mine?”

“Mine.” Finch took him by the hand and led him down the hallway to his bedroom.

. 

Reese woke up slowly. His arm was a dull throb of pain, the dressings on some of his wounds were pulling awkwardly at his skin, he had a probably blackjack-related headache and yet he still felt the best he had in ages. He stretched against the pillow, feeling the twinges and aches of a body well, if very carefully, used. 

Who knew what they’d be able to achieve when he wasn’t held together with surgical tape, if that day ever came; what Finch lacked in mobility he’d more than made up for with excessive creativity. It took Reese a few minutes to identify the odd feeling in the middle of his chest as contentment, perhaps even happiness only time would tell. 

He stretched out his arm finding only cold empty sheets, not surprised but disappointed nonetheless. The question now was how long it would take Finch to abandon this particular safe house, if he hadn’t already, and how much time and effort it was going to take to talk Finch in to giving them a chance. 

He got up, used the bathroom and went to look for Finch even though he knew it was pointless. His sleep pants were folded over the back of one of the kitchen chairs and he pulled them on before pouring himself a cup of coffee from the Thermos coffee maker Finch had obviously brewed for him. A quick look around showed that Finch wasn’t in the medical room or Reese’s bedroom or bathroom, so, sipping his coffee, he walked back down the other hallway past Finch’s bedroom and in to the room at the end. It was a very large library, office and work room, the shelves full of an extensive collection of first editions and the closets full of computer parts. Next, he went back in to Finch’s bedroom again and opened up the closets and drawers which were all full of Finch’s rather extensive wardrobe. A quick check of Finch’s bathroom cabinet revealed three different kinds of prescription painkiller, all in the name of Harold Peregrine. 

This wasn’t a safe house; Finch had brought him home with him. _Finch had brought him home with him._ John leaned against the bathroom counter trying to process what it might mean. Did Harold finally trust him? Did it possibly mean more than that? It might mean less. Had it just been a convenient refuge like Finch had said? Finch could afford to disappear from this apartment just like he’d disappeared from his office job. There wasn’t much point in thinking about it further until he could gather more intel. He went to shower and get dressed. It took him longer to get ready than usual; the bruising had developed further overnight and he had to re-dress his wounds. 

Almost ready to leave, he went to pick up his wallet, keys and the gun, not surprised to find that Finch has placed a phone alongside them. Under his wallet was a white card carefully inscribed in Finch’s precise handwriting: **_4176994321085?_** He almost crumpled the card in his hand as he’d really hoped they were now past Finch’s games. Instead, he slipped it in to his coat pocket before leaving the apartment. 

Riding down in the elevator he pondered the number, wondering why it was supposed to be a question and if he should just call Finch to ask. He decided against it; better to go to the library and see if Finch was there. He emerged at a busy time of the morning, people were arriving for work, walking across the parking lot and waiting at the elevator bank. 

He was halfway to the exit gate when he stopped dead; the elevator bank. He backtracked, stepped up to the end elevator and then waited for a moment to make sure no one else was planning on taking the same one. He punched the thirteen numbers into the keypad and grinned like an idiot as the doors slid open. Just to be sure, he rode it back to the top where he stepped out again in to the roof access corridor. But he still couldn’t get back in to the apartment… Or could he? He took out his wallet finding a credit card in the top slot he hadn’t seen before. He took it out and pressed it against the wall at the end of the corridor which opened just as smoothly and silently as it had the night before for Finch. 

But why the question mark? Finch couldn’t possibly doubt… Reese walked back across the room to stare out of the window at the throngs of people in the street below. This was Finch, doubt was practically his middle name. Old wounds, mental even more than physical were slow to heal for both of them and nothing had been said between them, not in words at least. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and called Finch, who picked up immediately. 

“John?” Finch sounded like he was holding his breath.

“I wondered if we have a new number yet.” The silence stretched out long enough that Reese started to wonder if the call had been dropped. “Finch?”

“… No, Mr. Reese, there’s no new number.”

“Good. I’m taking the morning off to move my gear over here; we can use the second bedroom for storage.” Silence on the other end of the phone compelled even John to say more. “If that’s alright with you?”

“Yes, John, it’s more than alright.”

.


End file.
